


Un bel di, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo

by QueenPotatos



Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, musician au, rinharuweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2651975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenPotatos/pseuds/QueenPotatos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music is made of two things: notes and rhythm. You need both to make a piece, and you need to master them completely to be called a virtuoso.<br/>Rin has the rhythm. He knows what he misses.<br/>And there's only one person who can bring what he lacks to create a masterpiece.<br/>But when Rin comes into the amphitheater for the first time in four years, the pianist's seat is empty.<br/>Jazz Band AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un bel di, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo

**Author's Note:**

> You'll have the list of the piece I used as a reference in the end note. Have a nice reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The amphitheater hasn't changed an iota during those four years; even if the red seats are now tilted and empty they still have that sort of mystical power, the heavy insinuation that whatever he does, people will see, that they will come just to see and, more importantly, to hear. Rin hasn't touched the soft skin of a drum in ages, and the pressure of not having practiced for so long reverberates with the stare the place sets on him, as if it was still expecting something, out of the ordinary.

  
It was really a legendary stage back in time; the most talented and reputed musicians had all performed here. But now, it was just an old room students could use to practice late at night.

  
  
"It's going to be fine," Makoto had told him on the phone. "Plus, we really need you. You're saving our lives."

  
  
His old friend's Jazz Band had had a little incident, a week ago. Their drummer had broken his wrist after a tracking practice and only a month before their first big contest, it would be something like patronizing to explain how unfortunate of a timing it was. It was near that time that Rin got back home, after four years of studying overseas. Pushed by the absurd but also irresistible feeling of nostalgia he had come here first, just in front of the amphitheater, still caring his truck with him. Makoto was cleaning the place and he had literally jumped when he took a glimpse of the tall, redhead silhouette belonging to an old friend of him, standing in front of the building.

  
Rin told him he would think about it but it was just another blatant lie. It was more of an evidence than a service. Makoto was giving him an opportunity that Rin has never even thought of dreaming; it was like his friend had heard the screams inside his guts and had found an answer to ease the pain.

  
  
As he sets the first of his foot inside the place Rin's hands are trembling with utter excitement. He recognizes the smell of the leather, of wood, of old partitions set on the lecterns. The black wooden floor still has the same holes at the exact same places that Rin remembers. It squeaks under his steps.

  
Entering the stage feels like coming home, at last; more than it had felt to fall in his mother's arms.

  
  
"Ah, you came!" Makoto exclaims. As if he thought he wouldn't. Rin smiles bitterly.

  
"Rin-chan!"

  
  
There's a man, a blond one with a brass set against the chair he sits on. Nagisa is still playing the trumpet, as expected. He could have been a good drummer – and it was in first choice before Rin turned out to be drastically better than him – with all the energy he possesses in his small body; but rhythm needs rigor and discipline, and Nagisa has never got enough patience to cultivate one of those two essential qualities any good classical musician needs. That's probably why they have all ended up here.

  
  
Jazz, the music of freedom, of improvisation.

  
(Well of course, you can't always do what you want in Jazz. Music can be the best lover but if you don't handle it like you should then, what happens of your union can quickly turn into a real disaster. There are rules to play with, but once you've mastered them, the gamut and the sample, Jazz can make you travel whenever you want wherever you want; you just have to settle the tempo with the beat of your foot.)

  
  
Next to him there are some people, one or two at the most, that Rin doesn't recognize. There's a ginger one holding a saxo soprano and at his right there is a short guy, maybe as short as Nagisa, who is cleaning his own trumpet. His hair is of a light grey color; his eyes are light blue.

  
  
But it's not for that kind of blue Rin came all the way here.

  
No one is occupying the pianist's seat at the moment. Rin walks towards it, his eyes set on noting but the empty space separating him from his goal. The drums he should be playing are on the other side of the small big band they are but nonetheless, Rin needs to stop there first.

  
  
His fingertips brush past the white touches. He plays a note, then two. Black ones. He's never liked the piano. To him, it has always sounded too rigid, too classic; it wasn't something he could have fun with. But not to Haru.

  
  
It has been four years now. Does he still remember?

  
  
"Ahem."

  
  
Rin hands are trembling again, this time not really knowing why.

  
  
The owner of the black and white beauty is manifesting his presence, clearing his throat. The sound of it can be heard by the whole assembly. Rin doesn't turn around, though; he doesn't need to. He would recognize the tone, the timbre of Haru's voice in the middle of a cacophony.

  
  
"You're occupying my seat. Again."

  
  
It's supposed to sound like a warning, or maybe even a threat but to Rin's ears, punished by years of silence and of loss of this voice, Haru's words aren't. They never were. They are like notes; Haru can make a delightful melody just by talking (a sad ballad in G minor, of course, he has never been the classical type as well; he has something more of a baroque musician in his veins,) when Rin's mouth can only produce sounds.

  
Sure he talks well, and quick, but he had always wanted to be more, to sit in front of the piano, and to make it cry out a symphony like Haru does, all the time.

  
  
"Yeah," he says; half of the gazes are set on him, some are on Haru's imperturbable face – Makoto looks at the floor, and then takes his saxophone out of its sheath. "I like it here. It's soft and comfortable for my butt. You can have mine if you want."

  
  
"No thanks. If I turn out to be better than you, you'll cry anyway."

  
  
Every single word, coming from this very singular mouth, always sounds like a provocation. There are only one, or two measures, but they're enough to make Rin's blood boils in his veins and his butt leaves the dark velvet rectangular seats in haste.

  
Red meets blue, a blue he hasn't seen in ages. It makes him want to whine, to crawl towards it and to never let it go again. Even if, in hindsight, wasn't it Rin who left them all in the first place?

  
  
That's why he does nothing. Haru's presence paralyzes both his rage and adoration. And yet the man is just standing, and looking at him with his typical, nonchalant and itching annoyance; as if Rin was just someone on his way, someone preventing him from doing what he wants when he wants and not Rin.

  
  
It feels like an insult but at the same time, Rin never expected something else coming from that man. Memories are fragile things. It's easier to choose to forget some than not to. As time went by Rin has tried, he really did, to remember every single detail of Haru. The way his arms move when he walks, how every bang on his hair falls in harmony around his face, the hypnotizing dexterity of his fingers working on the piano - and some other secret places where Rin would have like them to travel. But he had forgotten some.

  
  
Haru doesn’t talk either. He stares quite a long time at Rin, at his hair and new ponytail falling on his neck, at the drumsticks resting on his jean's pocket. Rin's eyes can't leave his lips. Haru takes notice and then, he walks past him. Their shoulders bump into each other.

 

  
Rin is pretty sure that Haru had stared back at his lips too.

  
  
Today they have chosen to play some standards – including 'Sing Sing Sing', one of his favorite – and one or two songs they'll play for the contest. One was an original composition, made by Haru, of course. It was wonderful. The session passed too quickly and before Rin had the time to hold his breath, once more, half of the bending seats are being put away against the wall where the other ones were.

  
  
"Bye!" Nitori says, smiling way too much for someone who has just met him, Rin thinks. Makoto is helping him with the drums. They have to put it piece by piece inside a small room near the backstage. When everything is done, the room is empty.

  
  
Well, almost.

  
"Well! It was really a great beginning!" Makoto sighs. He looks honestly content, happy with what they have managed to produce together, even if it was far from being perfect - at least for Rin it wasn't. But he doesn't voice his disagreement, because all that matters now is that Haru is still sitting in front of his open piano and that, from the sight of it he is anything but near of leaving the place. Haru is waiting for something and the thought gets under Rin's skin; it makes him shiver and hope for something that might never happen again but still, even knowing that it will probably hurt him more than do him any good, Rin steps behind, and lets Makoto walk towards the exit.

  
  
The tall man looks back, for a second, but never asks as for why Rin isn't following him as they have agreed on. He has another member of their band to drive back anyway – he can't wait for Rin, and Rin doesn't want anyone to wait for him but the man sitting in front of the piano.

 

  
"Who's that?" Momotarou asks, as they entered Makoto's car.

  
  
"Rin Matsuoka, an old friend of mine and Haru. We all met in music theory when we were seven."

  
  
"Ma-Matsuoka you said?"

  
  
"Yeah." Makoto starts the car. "He's his son."

  
There's an 'O' of adoration, forming on Momo's lips.

  
  
  
Rin has taken a small place on the piano's seat, just next to Haru. They're both staring at the keys without risking touching it. They aren't looking at the other one as well, or maybe just from the corner of their eyes, at the edge of their fingers, of their shoulder.

  
  
"You got better." Haru says at last, after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  
"Yeah. You too."

  
  
Rin has nothing cleverer to say; his whole attention is set on the small part of his arm that is aching for Haru's touch, for it's almost brushing past the pianist's arm.

  
  
They have met when they were both seven, parted ten years later. Those ten years they have spent together had been chaotic, tumultuous, and steamy, near the end. On that very seat four years ago they have shared something special, something that could have only happened between them, a sacred moment suspended in time and space. Haru's fingers run on the white touches. He breathes, heavily, and his eyes finally end up on Rin at last.

  
  
His mouth opens; Rin looks at it again with a kind of religious adoration, but Haru closes it as soon as Rin's gaze falls on his lips.

  
  
The old yellow neon light goes on and off very quickly above their heads. It's making Rin dizzy all of a sudden.

  
  
"Why haven't you called?" Haru asks as his hands rest on the keys. It's Rin's turn to remain silent. There is nothing he can say to justify his silence. He has been a coward. He has been scared, nothing more, nothing less. Scared that Haru might regret, or forget, or just don't care. He had daydreamed, every day of every week, of the kind of reaction Haru would have if they met again. The idea of Haru rejecting him woke him up at night with cold sweat. It was easier to run away from this kind of unrealistic fear than to confront the truth and secret that lie in his heart.

  
  
He likes Haru. He always had.

  
His right hand starts to play a piece he knows Haru used to learn when they were kids. It's just the melody and yet it has been hell to learn.

  
  
(His second and forth fingers play the chord 'F – Ab', the same thing octave higher. Then 'Db – F',C Eb/Db-F/C-Eb quickly, very expressively. Haru recognizes the piece, and he starts to play the accompaniment with his left hand. Sometimes Rin needs his two hands to make a chord Haru could probably do with one, but it's okay. He lets him play the part where the notes follow fluidly and in the end, Haru is the only one playing,and Rin listens to him.)

  
Haru leans into him to play the last chord at the very end of the piano.

  
  
  
(A-Cb Bb, A-Cb Bb, Fb, F-Ab, Ab-B-F-Ab)

  
  
  
Rin's foot keeps pushing on the right pedal to make it resonate in the big amphitheater. It sounds like a holy prayer; it's maybe the most beautiful and romantic piece he'd heard in his whole life. Surely, the pianist sees the shining of his eyes.

  
"I thought you would find it too sweet." Haru says, and he puts his hands back on his lap. Somehow it feels wrong when they aren't on the piano. It's like the puzzle is missing its central piece. The world can't be turning round if Haru isn't playing a symphony.

  
  
"Then play something else. Something I'll like. Play for me."

  
  
It almost makes Haru laugh. Almost.

  
  
"Fine."

  
  
Their eyes meet. Rin can hear Haru's saying 'don't cry', and then, Haru starts playing one of Rin's favorite piece from his favorite compositor.

  
  
(Haru plays the 'Ballad n°1 in G minor, opus 23'. It's not perfect because, well, Rin is sitting on the right side of the seat and makes it impossible for Haru to reach certain notes in the high tones but he does; no one really knows how but Haru does miracles, with his fingers, his sensibility, and those miracles make Rin cry like a seven years old boy, like the first time they've met, like the first time Rin had heard him play on the piano in their music theory's room.)

  
Ten minutes after when finally, the piece is over, Rin's head is leaning on Haru's shoulder. It's wet.

  
"I told you not to cry."

  
  
"Sorry."

  
  
"Don't be."

  
  
Haru wipes the tears away; with his thumbs and then, with his mouth. "God," he whispers, "I've missed you so much. Why haven't you called?"

  
  
Rin sobs on Haru's shirt. "I was scared," his voice chokes, "I was so damn scared."

  
"But scared of what?"

  
And then, Rin realizes.

  
  
"I don't…I don't even know. I think I was scared of you."

  
  
There's a flash of hurt in those blue eyes. This has always been the problem between them. They're like fire and water, melody and rhythm; the way they work are completely different and that's why they couldn't really understand each other.

  
  
Rin has always dreamed to be just like Haru. Well, it wasn't right, not really. He had wanted to be the ghost of his father; that's why he has started playing music at a very young age, and why he had chosen to play the piano first; but the seat he wanted to occupy so dearly was already taken by someone else.

  
But now, when he looks at Haru, Rin sees the ghost of his father no more.

  
  
"Hey," he says, when his tears have dried. "Haru, I'm home now."

  
  
Haru smiles fondly, "Welcome back." He murmurs then.

  
  
  
Their hands brush past each other as they leave the place now plunged in the darkness.  
  
"I'll drive you home." Haru proposes, but Rin makes him understand that it isn't really in his good intention.  
  
Home is where his heart beats. Home is where the music is alive.  
  
Home is whenever he can walk the road along Haru's side.

  
  
  
(Haru starts the car. They drive back to his home and stay there all night. From the back of the car, Rin casts a last look to the golden commemorative plaque that shines in the darkness.

 

  
'Toraichi Matsuoka Amphitheater' it says.)

 

 

 

 

_Un bel di, vedremo levarsi un fil di fumo_...  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the name of my favorite Opera piece, it's the air of Mme Butterfly.  
> Sing sing sing is a very famous jazz song from the 30-40s, you can youtube it.  
> Rin and Haru play the Clair de Lune of Debussy, find a good version if you can cause on youtube there are some bad ones.  
> In the end Haru plays, as it's said, the Ballad in G minor, opus 23 by Chopin. It's my fav of him.
> 
> I don't have a lot of english vocabulary in music I used a dictionary to translate the french words I knew so excuse me if it's not always accurate
> 
> Ofc, the place I describe is the one where I used to play with my friends. Writing this made me kind of nostalgic of the time when I was in a symphonic orchestra.
> 
> See you tomorrow !


End file.
